Red Xs
by eyesocketsandsuits
Summary: [[ RusAme Oneshots ]] Alfred was on leave. It wasn't his first tour, but Ivan must have felt it acutely. It was almost strange, Matthew driving up to the—not their—house, the driveway unshoveled. Ivan turned to making oven pizza, various Russian recipes he could cobble together from the American ingredients.
1. Red Xs

**Note: These were originally posted in the FF . net story "Flying Pieces of Paper." They have been moved to this new story in an organizational attempt.**

 **RusAme oneshots.**

* * *

Alfred was on leave. It wasn't his first tour, but Ivan must have felt it acutely. It was almost strange, Matthew driving up to the—not their—house, the driveway unshoveled. Ivan turned tomaking oven pizza, various Russian recipes he could cobble together from the American ingredients.

"Russia has better ingredients," Ivan snapped one day, throwing a bottle of spices across the counter. "All this American shit is fake, the labels are fake, fake, fake." He scowled, the whole house absorbing his gloom. "Fuck."

Matthew would watch his fiancé storm around the house, throwing pillows and the vacuum. Cursing in any language he could remember. Cycle through the American, switch to the Russia, the swears becoming longer and more complex.

Six months was a long time.

Matthew baited with the wedding.

"Ivan," he tried, "We can't keep pushing the day back. Please, at least help with calling the catering places and apologizing. Again."

Ivan was in the kitchen, looking at the spice cabinet. "You Americans," he muttered, "So caught up on apologizing and keeping up looks." He glanced over at Matthew, before returning to the spices. "Why can we not just have small wedding?"

They have had this conversation before. The same recycled lines; Matthew could hear the frustration bubbling under Ivan's words. Ivan switched from the spice cabinet to the pantry, eyes still roaming for an ingredient he wouldn't find.

Matthew followed, list of people to call still in hand. "We both know my fathers—well, Francis, won't stand for that. Plus, you haven't met most of my family yet. Ivan?"

" _What_?" Ivan snapped, slamming the cabinet door.

" _Call_ ," Matthew handed him the list.

The wedding was always being pushed back. Matthew listened as Ivan called the caterers, calling them cunts and whores and dicks in Russian. Whenever Ivan caught Matthew looking at him, he smiled, fake and acidic.

There was a calendar hanging in the kitchen; Matthew watched the red Xs march through the months.

Matthew's eyes skipped over the words on the page. He knew Ivan was up, was highly aware of this fact. God, it had been _months_ since they had touched each other. Matthew turned the page, but he hadn't been reading for a while.

"You up?"

Ivan mumbled something in Russian, half turning over. "Is there something you needed? I am job hunt tomorrow, I need rest." He opened his eyes, flicking them down and then quickly back up to Matthew. "Matthew, I am tired. Perhaps tomorrow?"

Matthew shut his book with a snap. "Maybe." He walked to the bathroom and didn't smother the moans from his mouth or the phone.

Finally, finally, Alfred's brand new car was in the driveway. Matthew's father had bought it because, as he explained over the phone, a man being over in one of those "God-awful places" needed something to come home to. Alfred got the insurance-wrecking purchases, while Matthew got house loans.

Alfred had painted his car fire red. There was an American flag bumper sticker.

Ivan was cooking something American—hamburgers on the grill, cooler nearby full of beer, Alfred sprawled in the lawn chair, tanned and built from his stay in the desert. The two of them had a collection of beer bottles scattered around their feet.

"Fuck you!" Alfred laughed, throwing the bottle cap at Ivan. "I get back and you insult me! I'd like to see you fucking pick sand out of _your_ hair for six months! Not a drop of fucking water in sight, and the sand was like, I don't know," Alfred rubbed his fingers together, "Flour."

Matthew watched them through the open sliding door. Ivan had mowed the lawn.

"Did you try to eat it?" Ivan grinned, sitting down in a nearby chair as the food cooked.

Alfred lunched, trying to kick Ivan in the shin. The other man snorted, slapping away Alfred's feet and kicking away Alfred's lawn chair. Alfred's dog—of course had brought it—scampered over, jumping on Ivan and woofing.

"Get your fat dog off!" Ivan commanded, but there was a lilt to it Matthew was unfamiliar with, one that made Alfred laugh refuse to get up. "It smells like you, unwashed, disgusting."

"Oh, learned some big words when I was gone!" Alfred leaned forward, catching the dog by the collar and dragging him into his lap. "Disgusting! You sound almost like you're not from the ass-end of the world. I remember you could only swear when you got here."

Ivan cracked open another beer. "And look, my vocabulary is better than your—Matthew!"

Alfred sat up, his dog jumping away. "Mattie!" Alfred stood, pulling his brother into a hug. "God, fuck, it's so good to see you! Shit," Alfred held Matthew at arm length, "Yo!"

Matthew smiled, pushing away Alfred's arms. "How've you been?"

Alfred nodded. He was like his dog, all smiles and eagerness and jangling tags. "Fucking awesome! Dad picked me up in that awesome car, took me to Mc D's—and then I went home and slept for like, a day. Figured you guys missed me, the newlyweds."

Ivan coughed, holding his beer away from him. He stood, checking the grill and ignoring Matthew's pointed look. Matthew dragged his eyes away from his fiancé's back to Alfred. Another smile, this one half-hearted.

"Not yet. Pushed it back until you came back." Ivan had pushed it back when he found out Alfred would be deploying. "I wanted you to be my best man, and Arthur wanted you there, so…" Another hug from Alfred.

Matthew excused himself to change out of his work clothes. He walked back to Alfred throwing bottle caps at Ivan. Alfred spun dramatically, collapsing into the lawn chair. Ivan was kicking the bottle caps back at Alfred, trying to hit him in the head.

"Your fiancé was being a fucking dick, again," Alfred moaned.

Ivan crossed his arms. "I was just commenting that your 'favorite, all time country' has more men who playing the Halo than fighting in wars. And the men who come back are so well adjusted."

"Well, fuck you!" Alfred responded brightly. "I came back perfectly well adjusted! I can kick your ass, if I have to, you giant, hulking mother fucker!"

Ivan scoffed, stepping closer, leaning over Alfred. "I would liking to see you try. I used to fight dogs bigger than you, when I was a child. You have a few years in the military, and what, you think you're tough shit?" Ivan smirked, and Alfred scowled.

Matthew coughed. "Food done?"

Ivan stepped back. "Yes. Almost."

Alfred groaned. "Come on, I want food."

The party stopped when some local kids set off some fireworks. Alfred got tense and insisted they go inside. He refused to leave, muttering something about the dark and fireworks. Matthew made him up a bed on the couch. He was twitchy, but it was late and Alfred was drunk and Matthew was tired.

Distantly, Matthew hoped a firework hit Alfred's new car. He got a glass of water, the calendar abandoned on the counter.

Matthew gritted his teeth.

When he got upstairs, Ivan grabbed Matthew, spilling the water absolutely. Ivan grabbed the glass and threw it deeper into the room, pressing kisses into Matthew's neck. He ran a hand underneath Matthew's shirt, letting it wander around his chest before sliding around to Matthew's ass.

"I have been neglecting you," Ivan muttered, nipping at Matthew collar bone.

"I threw the calendar out." Ivan froze, breath hot and shallow on Matthew's skin. "I was hoping it was counting down the days to the wedding. There's no X today."


	2. (Ex)Amazing

"Hey, Pa," Alfred asked, standing on the tip of his toes to see over the window ledge, "How high can birds fly? Can I fly one day, too?"

 **…**

Alfred wanted to flip the table over. "What?"

Lovino steepled his fingers, peering over at Alfred. "You heard me. Anyone can lift heavy objects. Braginski… Now, _there's_ an act. He's one the best. God knows I hauled ass to snap him up when his circus failed."

The strong man threw his hands in the air. "All he does is hang on bars all day long! I could do that."

Lovino raised an eyebrow. "And all _you _do is lift barbells."

Alfred ran a hand through his hair, frowning. "Alright, fine, we'll agree to disagree." His eyes softened and he bent his knees slightly. "But _please_ don't make me go at the last act. People leave and they're too bored to pay attention at the end."

The circus owner grunted, leaning back in his chair. "Sorry. People want to see Ivan."

"Ivan, Ivan, Ivan! That's all I ever hear about lately!" Alfred snapped, crossing his arms. "What happened to when I was the star act, huh? Alfred the Amazing—he can lift anyone from the audience with one hand!"

Lovino stood, face heating up. "Listen here, you wouldn't _have_ an act if it was—"

"Um, sorry," A voice interrupted, "But wondering where to pick money?"

Alfred whipped around, hands clenched into fists. Speak of the devil. Ivan stood awkwardly in the doorway, stooping down so he could fit. For a trapeze artist, the guy sure was husky. He shot a hesitant smile at Alfred before focusing back on Lovino.

Lovino groaned, running a hand over his face. "Ah, Alfred, explain."

The strongman took a deep breath. " _Money comes on Monday_ ," Alfred said in Russian.

Ivan's smile grew slightly and he nodded. " _I was worried he would be like the other boss and cheat me out of my pay_." He shifted on his feet in the doorway, nodding to Lovino. "Thank you!" The Soviet shuffled away.

Lovino switched his gaze to Alfred. "When are you going to teach him proper English?"

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Please. I'm already teaching that brother of yours, and Ivan can do just fine one his own." He rolled up his sleeves, ran a hand through his hair once more, then left the train car.

 **…**

Alfred hated his guts, but he knew why Lovino had given the central act to the Soviet. Ivan seemed to belong in the air. If not for the occasional swing on the trapeze bar, it almost seemed like he was floating. Despite his lumbering appearance on land, the importance of his size seemed to disappear in the air. The crowd cheered as Ivan did another successful flip.

Alfred jumped when he realized he wasn't alone watching.

" _Pretty amazing_ …" Feliciano breathed in Italian, adjusting his workers uniform.

Alfred nodded in agreement. " _He should be. Took ages to set up the damn bars._ " Another twirl in midair, Ivan catching the adjacent bar with his knees. Alfred turned to his neighbor. "Feliciano, who's act is better? Mine or Ivan's?"

Feliciano mouthed the words, eyes closed in concentration. When he realized what Alfred was asking, his face contorted. "Do not ask that!" He rung his hands, mouth silently going over the words he intended to say. Finally, "Both is different. Ivan is, ah, smooth. You," Feliciano brought his arms up and mocked flexed, "Is rough."

Alfred rolled his eyes. "That's not an answer."

Feliciano frowned. "Is."

The crowd gasped. Alfred and Feliciano peaked back through the tent flap. Ivan was hanging on to his bar by one hand, momentum lost. Whatever he had done, it looked like he was about four fingers away from falling to the hard, packed ground below.

Alfred let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding.

 **…**

"Alfred?"

Alfred looked up from his crossword, replacing his glasses on his face. Ivan was standing in the entrance to his train car, smiling and looking very out of place. Alfred looked around then checked his watch.

"Eh, it's almost time to head out, are you—"

"Why do you no liking me?" Ivan stepped further into the car, sliding the door shut behind him. "I…" He fumbled for words.

Alfred felt guilt rip through his stomach like fire. He may hate Lovino and his stupid decision making, but Ivan probably had no idea about Alfred's past strongman act. All Ivan knew was that the only man who spoke Russian seemed to glare at him when he walked by.

"No, I don't hate you!" Alfred said loudly, throwing the newspaper aside. "It's just… Well…"

The train started to move. A few stray bottles rolled across the floor, filling the silence with a pleasent grinding sound. Ivan barely seemed to be affected by the momentum; maybe it reminded him of his performances.

"It's nothing. I don't hate you," Alfred repeated, pushing up his glasses and rubbing his eyes.

"I like your act."

Alfred's head shot up. "What?"

Ivan opened his mouth, started to say something, and then switched to Russian. " _You're very strong for your size. It's interesting to see you talk to the crowd and lift them and make them laugh. People only like to watch me to see if I fall and hurt myself_."

Alfred sat up straighter in his bed. "That's not true." Really? Was the star act of Vargas Bros. really saying that his death was the people watched him perform. Alfred felt his fingertips get hot. "You're incredible! I have never seen _anyone_ do what you do!"

Ivan's mouth flicked down into a confused frown.

Alfred was glad Ivan wasn't fluent in English. He was also glad the dark hid his blush.

 **…**

"What's it like?" Alfred called up to Ivan.

The Soviet was supposed to be practicing, but currently he was just sitting on the bar, looking down at Alfred and smiling. He kicked his legs, beginning to swing.

"Like I'm a bird," Ivan answered, falling off his bar and catching the one across from him.

Once, a long time ago, Alfred had wanted to fly. Now, he was content to watch someone else fly for him.

* * *

 **History:** _This is set in the 1930's in America. Most of my information comes from reading 'Water for Elephants,' but whatever! Circuses crisscrossed the country in trains, and when one would flop, other circuses would swoop down to collect spare people and animals._

 _Watches were improved upon and widely distributed in WW1, hence why Alfred has one. Crossword puzzles were invented in 1913._

 _Lovino owns the circus because of course. He was sent over to live in America first by his family, and then later sent back enough money for Feliciano to join him._

 _Ivan was apart of Mr. Winter's Spectacular Show, which later went kaput. Russian ballerinas have to be thin and agile, hence why Ivan is flexable enough for his trapeze act. ;P America in the show/comics is shown to have freakish strength, which is why I switched the roles._

 _America has always been a big cohesion of languages. It's a headcannon of mine that America/Alfred picks up languages easy. So, he already knew some basic Italian and Russian when Lovino brought those two aboard._

 _USSR was created in 1922._


	3. Russian Next Door (Trans Russia)

Alfred had caught sight of her in his boxers. He was getting his mail, coffee in one hand, the other holding his bathrobe closed. It was morning, and he was late for work, and the guy across the street had just gotten married.

And there she was, in her own bathrobe. She had long hair, light blond, long legs, and the largest set of shoulders Alfred had seen this side of the football field. For whatever reason, Alfred wished he was wearing something more than a pair of boxers and a thin robe.

"Hey," he called across the empty street, grinning in that way that made girls' knees weak.

The woman looked up from the mail, tilting her head at the man yelling strange things at her. Alfred waved, hoping she would come over and talk. Instead, she smirked and called something in Russian before heading back into the house.

Despite her thin hips, she had this killer sway in her step.

Alfred was a programmer, so he worked from home most days. And by 'worked from home,' he meant more working out in his garage and cruising around town on his motorcycle. It wasn't a bad life, he could go out most nights and get drunk, then do some code he didn't remember in the morning.

Today, he was in search for food. He strolled through the aisles of the store, grabbing as many carbs as he could lay his hands on. After all, he worked out, he needed to keep his caloric intake in. Twinkies were just an easy and delicious way to do this.

A flash of long blonde hair.

Alfred looked up from the selections of cookies. He hurried down, peaking around to catch sight of the same woman from a couple of mornings ago. She was looking at the stacks of Gold Fish, a look of faint horror on her face.

America grinned and waltzed over. She didn't look over for a moment, and when she did, she raised an eyebrow expectantly. She was taller than him by three inches. Her makeup made her face look narrow and her eyes cat-like.

"Alfred F. Jones, at your service." He stuck a hand out, grinning.

Her eyes flicked down to the hand. She held up her own, showing the wedding ring. "Married."

Alfred held up his hands. "I wasn't asking you on a date! I was just wondering what your name was."

Her eyebrows pulled together. "Married."

She didn't speak English. She wasn't just foreign, she was a _mail order bride_. The guy next door had bought this poor chick, and now she was stuck staring at Gold Fish in America. Alfred laughed, throwing his head back, and by the time he recovered, she was gone.

Admittedly, not the best way to introduce himself, but she didn't have to _leave_.

Alfred sulked, eating Twinkies while he pumped iron.

Still, the whole situation next door was interesting. Alfred grinned at his neighbor whenever he saw him leave the house. The neighbor, an older forty year old, pressed his lips together and hurried on. Serves him right, scumbag.

But the wife—whoever she was—was around town. She jogged, and Alfred almost crashed his motorcycle when he first saw her. She went shopping often and stuck to loose dresses and ballet flats.

Alfred tried again two weeks later. This time, she was running by his house on her running route, and Alfred decided to join her. He had trouble keeping up with her stride, but she didn't need to know that.

She rolled her eyes. "Back?"

Alfred grinned, skipping ahead and running backwards. "You beta'cha, babe. What's your name?"

Her eyes were straight ahead. "Anya. Mrs. Anya Gittsburg."

Alfred nodded. "Ah, yes, that ring. So, what, you're a mail order bride? You know—" He nearly tripped, "—I don't judge. Girl's gotta' do what a girl's gotta' do."

Anya gritted her teeth. "You mocking?"

"What?"

Anya punched him, right in the side of the face. Alfred cursed and nearly fell on his ass, but he was too fucking graceful for that shit, so he sort of spun and stood back up. He held his jaw, feeling his face heat up with anger.

"What the fuck?!"

Anya had stopped running, looking at him disdainfully. "I am girl."

Alfred clenched his fist. "You fucking bitch! I was saying I don't judge you for fucking marrying a forty year old to come to America! God damn, you punch like a motha' humpa'!" He poked his jaw. "Fuck!"

"Oh."

"Fuck your 'oh!'"

Anya shrugged and continued running. Alfred followed, each heartbeat making his face throb. "Hey! _Hey_! I think you owe me a fucking apology! That was assault, I could report you to the police for that shit and get you shipped back to Russia."

Anya scoffed. "You harassing me."

"No, I'm pretty sure I was making polite fucking conversation." Alfred pouted, watching her run from behind for a few moments. "Does your husband know about…"

Anya sped up slightly. "You annoying."

And then she fucking outran him. Alfred watched her start to gain feet, him dying behind her trying to keep up, and then she turned and she was fucking gone. Alfred leaned against a stop sign, gasping for breath. He was a weight resistance man, not a fucking cardio man.

A few mornings later, they saw each other at the mail boxes again. She was wearing something skimpy under her robe. Alfred wolf whistled and she gave him the middle finger, smiling.


	4. Demon and Dimes

Ivan wasn't exactly in the occult. Sure, he went to meetings and brought in the monthly donations, but it wasn't bad. They didn't sacrifice babies or small animals. Sometimes, the leader would request one of the members to bring in someone they knew, just to "practice" on.

It was Ivan's turn.

"Alfred."

Alfred barely looked up from his comic. "Dude, if you're not checking out a book, you're not allowed to stand in front of the front desk."

Ivan returned with a book.

"Alfred, what do you think of the occult?"

The librarian scoffed. "I knew you were into some crazy stuff. What, like, Cthulhu and shit? I dunno'. I was into it for a while in high school; end of the world seemed pretty cool day before midterms. Why?"

Ivan played with the book, giving more attention to the cover than Alfred. He could feel the other man getting irritated from behind the desk, waving away another person trying to check out.

"No reason."

Alfred sat up straighter in his chair, grabbing Ivan's book away from him. "I didn't want to know, anyways. Weirdo. Why are you checking out a book about hamsters? And why the hell are you in a cult?"

"I know many good people in my group," Ivan responded, shooting a look at the growing number of people behind him. "We're having another meeting tonight, if you're interested in joining. We're summoning demons."

Ivan and Alfred had a difficult relationship. It had started when Alfred had commented on the romance novel Ivan checked out for a friend. Things had escalated to the point where Ivan chose the oddest things he could find in the library, Alfred torn between mocking him and losing his job.

Ivan thought the librarian was the most annoying shit head. Loud, arrogant, and he chewed bubblegum like it was his last meal. Ivan usually watched the blond read his comic books or flirt with various people. Sometimes, if Alfred was particularly annoying, Ivan would read a book on the USSR; the patriotic librarian would glare from over the top of his comic book.

But _ghosts_?

"Are you afraid of spirits?" Ivan asked, tilting his head.

"No."

"You seem to be."

Now, the two of them were standing outside of Ivan's parish. Cult. Whatever.

"This place is creepy."

No, it wasn't. Sure, the forest looked a little menacing at dusk. And the building the meetings were conducted in was made out of some dark stone that was always cold to the touch. But inside was nice enough—everything was old wood and white paint.

Alfred relaxed, grabbing some snacks and chatting amicably with an English chap. The cult—parish—leader made eye contact with Ivan, nodding toward Alfred. Ivan smiled, shrugging.

Yao, the leader, clapped his hands. "Enough talking—we came here to summon our Lord!"

The members started to file into the prayer room. Ivan grabbed Alfred's shoulder, stopping him from following. The blond slapped away his hand, grumbling and watching the crowd filter away.

"You guys are creepy."

Ivan rolled his eyes and pointed down another corridor. "We are going in the back room. You're not allowed to see our practices unless you're a high level member."

In retrospect, that probably sounded a little odd. Judging by the look Alfred shot him, _he_ definitely thought so. Walking through the creaking hallways, looking at the painted pictures of the parish's last summoning, knowing that in the other room, a cult was praying to the dark Gods…

"Smells like old people in here."

Well, if Alfred was bothered by any of that, he certainly didn't act like it.

The room Ivan led Alfred into was something Yao had boasted about for months. If anyone cared to look, they would notice that the walls were a slightly darker shade of white than the rest of the building. Ivan hadn't had the time to participate, but that English chap had told him all about it.

If you peeled back the paint, you'd find summoning pentagrams carved into the wall.

Alfred collapsed into one of the comfortable couches in the room, kicking up his feet. Ivan stared, hoping he'd get the hint that _it was a new couch_ , but the librarian just munched on his powdered doughnuts.

"How do you end up joining a cult?" Alfred finally asked, licking his fingers for the remaining sugar. "Like, do they have stands outside of grocery stores? Set up shop next to the Girl Scouts?"

Ivan remained standing, leaning against the far wall. "I met Yao at a yard sale. He invited me to see what his whole…" His hands searched for the subtle engravings on the wall behind him. "… Philosophy was about."

Fuck. They actually _were_ there.

Alfred lost interest in the room, pulling out his phone. "So, do you, like, actually believe in all of this stuff?" When Ivan didn't respond, "Or are you just here for the free food?"

"I don't just think with my stomach. The people here are interesting. They think interesting things. And some of the things they dream up…" Ivan shook his head, smiling.

"You're just here for shits and giggles, aren't you?"

Technically, yes. Though, the symbol tattooed on the back of Ivan's neck probably suggested something different; had to go through the motions to see his friends and all that. That was not something that could be easily explained.

Apparently, Alfred had enough. "Wanna' ditch?" He asked and stood up, heading towards the door.

No, Ivan didn't, but he followed after Alfred, anyways.

Fucking mosquito. Ivan slapped a hand against the back of his neck, grimacing. When he looked back up, Alfred was standing just inside the room, hand on the doorknob. He wasn't moving.

"We usually eat raw goat after the service." No response. "Alfred?"

The man jumped, turning his head. "Fuck, sorry, what? God, this place is creepy. Let's go get something to eat because I thought this was going to be a lot more interesting than it was."

The rest of the evening passed relatively uneventfully. They had stopped to get some pizza, Alfred complaining about his flat mate and his job and his videogames. Ivan broke in and started talking about the history of the coffee bean when he decided Alfred had talked for too long.

Ivan dropped Alfred off at his apartment and all was well.

And then Alfred started flirting with him.

It wasn't the subtle, fun kind. It wasn't snarky comments about Ivan's choice of sweaters. It wasn't charging late fees when Ivan had returned the book a week before it was due. It wasn't chewing bubblegum so loud it made Ivan's ears hurt.

It was Alfred leaning on Ivan's desk, grinning and blushing like a mad man. It was putting his hand on Ivan's shoulder and leaning in close to whisper in Ivan's ear.

"What's wrong with your voice?"

Alfred smiled pleasantly, cheeks still flushed. "What do you mean?"

The librarian sounded as though he was straining his voice to talk softer. Even his laughs sounded off: instead of loud, snorting, truly awful laughs, Alfred sound like he was _tittering_. Like a school girl. Teehee.

"Are you sick?"

Alfred looked down at his lap and scratched the back of his neck, cheeks glowing even brighter. "No, Ivan, I'm fine. What're you reading?"

Alfred _looked_ sick. He was flushed, and his voice was off, and his breath kept catching. Satan, why was he touching Ivan? Why did he care what Ivan was reading? It was annoying. He had bought the man pizza, not a wedding ring.

"Are you sure you aren't sick?"

Alfred _pouted_.

Ivan slowly shut his book. "Is this a joke?"

Alfred almost looked _upset_. "Why won't you just tell me what you're reading?" Oh, he was _whining_. "Hey, can I ask you a question? Can I have your phone number?"

Ivan ran for the hills.

Maybe, maybe, Alfred was just being a shit head. This was not out of the realm of possibility. One afternoon, Alfred had repeatedly asked 'what?' every time Ivan spoke, regardless of the fact Ivan was three feet in front of him. No, it wasn't quite abnormal yet.

Ivan gave it a week.

On Saturday, things had gotten worse. Ivan strolled into the library to see a horrific sight. Alfred was wearing a pink hoodie and cowboy boots. Ivan strolled out of the library, hands on his hips, deeply concerned. He walked back in one more time, just to make sure.

"Ivan!" Alfred called, waving, his hoodie riding up. He had shaved his stomach.

Kudos to Ivan, he didn't run away.

Well, he didn't until Alfred gave him a hug. A _hug_. An honest, sickeningly sweet hug. Alfred was wearing some sort of fragrance. Alfred sighed contently, even when Ivan made no move to reciprocate the action.

Then Ivan fled and hid in his car.

Frantically, he dialed Yao's number, adjusting his seat so he was lying flat. Ivan didn't believe in Satan or demons. But he sure as Hell was calling professionals on the off chance this shit was real.

"Yao?"

"Why are you whispering?"

Ivan peaked through his window. "I am very sorry about leaving the other day. Alfred was insistent upon leaving."

There was the distant sound of banging pots from the other end of the line. "You can't leave and then expect help. Blond annoying boy was your donation to the church, and you leave! I'm not helping if he possessed."

"Yao, he really is possessed."

Ivan imagined he could hear Yao's seriousness. "What?"

There was a knock on the window, and although Ivan would never admit this, he jerked away. Alfred was pouting, tapping on the window and leaning against Ivan's new car. He kept saying something in that breathy voice of his.

"I'm going to be at the church in fifteen minutes." Ivan ended the call, fixing his seat into the right position. Then, he opened the window.


	5. Importance of Condoms

Maybe it was a ball. Maybe, in the middle of the night, Alfred had gotten up and glued giant, green balls all over Ivan's house. Maybe he had gone to a specialty store that sold egg-shaped beach balls. There had to be at least twenty.

"Alfred."

Nothing, just a vague snore of protest. Ivan shook Alfred again, eyes still focused on the egg. Things.

"Alfred, did you get up in the middle of night? What the hell did you do?" Perhaps accusing Alfred wasn't the best thing to do, but then again, gluing things all over Ivan's house wasn't exactly the best, either. " _Alfred_!"

"Oh, my God, mom, what is it?" Alfred lifted his head from the pillow, squinting at Ivan. "Where are my glasses?"

"Maybe under one of those!" Ivan pointed at one of the various eggs scattered around his bedroom. "What the _fuck_ did you do?"

Alfred groaned and buried his face back into the pillow. "Fuck," he moaned, stretching his back. "There may have been something I forgot to tell you. Like, kinda' important. Did you use a condom?"

Somewhere, someplace, someone let out the scream Ivan's facial expression brought to mind. Ivan kicked Alfred in the side, nearly falling out of the bed onto one of the eggs. Alfred let out an annoyed yell and grabbed Ivan's leg, twisting.

"Dude, don't kick me! Fuck, that _hurt_!"

"What do you mean ' _did I use a condom_?!'" Ivan shouted, twisting onto his stomach and attempting to kick Alfred in the teeth. Fucker. "What the hell does that even mean? Why are there eggs everywhere? Alfred!"

Ivan missed Alfred's face, but got a bite on the foot for his troubles. "Dude, calm your tits! They sort of kinda' might be mine. Like, my kids. Egg. Things. They're probably completely harmless while they're just eggs!"

The morning was slowly descending into more and more chaos. Ivan hid his face in his hands. Alfred let go of his foot, and Ivan slid off of the bed, bumping into one of the eggs and sending it rolling across the floor.

" _What_?"

Alfred threw a pillow at Ivan. "I'm an alien."

" _What_?!"

The blond's head appeared over the edge of Ivan's bed. He squinted, probably more concerned for the location of his glasses than the fucking alien eggs. "Like, sort of crash landed here. My people and you people look alike."

"Eggs, Alfred, the eggs."

"Well, yeah, except for the egg part. And the tenticles—"

Ivan rubbed his palms into his eyes. He saw stars, but, honestly, that was probably an improvement. "Alfred, you're tolerable. You are relatively attractive. We've been flirting for a couple of months, so I didn't think too much of…" Ivan gestured to the space in between them. "But we're going to have to deal with eggs."

"Just throw them into a ditch. That's what you're supposed to do." Alfred slithered off of the bed, falling on top of Ivan. "And then they hatch and fight to the death. What time is it?"

Ivan looked at Alfred through his fingers. "I'm having trouble taking you seriously right now."

"Fuck, I have to get to work." Alfred stood, tripping over the eggs. He pushed them aside, searching for his clothes. They smacked together, sounding more like bowling balls than the fragile eggs they were. "I'll be back after my shift, yeah? Find a nice ditch, just about anything will do nicely."

And then Alfred left Ivan with the fucking eggs. The alien left Ivan alone with his creepy alien eggs. Had it been anything other than a weekend, Ivan probably _would_ have abandoned the eggs on his way to work; not enough time to deal with that. But instead Ivan lay on the floor, watching the eggs.

Christ, how many were there? Ivan counted as many as he could from his position. He counted ten. How could someone lay ten eggs without even caring? How could you not care?

Ivan reached out to touch one of the eggs. It was cold, weirdly so. Was Alfred cold-blooded? What would happen when they hatched? God, how would Ivan feed everyone? He could only work with a club bouncer's paycheck.

After a couple minutes of searching, Ivan found a permanent marker. He searched his house, counting the eggs and writing their number on the shell. Twenty-four egg babies. How the hell had Alfred laid _twenty-four_ eggs? They hadn't exactly gone to bed early.

Alfred came home to a nest of pillows and Ivan baby-proofing the house.

"I want to make this work," Ivan said, smiling.


	6. Space and Coffee

If there were two things Mars was known for, it was their zealots and their coffee. Alfred Jones' first memory was of a meeting to petition Earth to include the Mars satellite colonies as American states, and of creamy, warm coffee.

Alfred had picked up both of these defining characteristics; he was a fierce and loyal lover of Earth America, and he knew how to brew one of the best damn cups of coffee, or your money back. One of the first things he had painted on the counter of his coffee shop was an American flag.

However, currently, Alfred was of undetermined planetary status—his passport had no home planet to call his own. There was the stamp for the Lunar colony, the ashy one for Mercury, and the silvery one for Europa, but under "Current Planet," there was only the mark of the I.P.S. Luxury.

When Alfred had first been ferried out to the cruiser, his face had taken up an entire porthole. It was a beautiful ship; huge ports for cargo ships to dock, viewing bay windows, and the engines for artificial gravity. Alfred, quite unconsciously, began to drool.

"Never seen a cruiser?"

Alfred looked over his shoulder. "This one's _my_ cruiser." He reluctantly returned to his seat. "You're pretty tall for being from Europa," he commented, straining his neck to watch the star cruiser loom in the distance.

"That's because I'm from Russia," the man replied, smile turning cold.

The man distracted Alfred, if only for a second. "Dude, "Russia" is scattered around the Solar System—I don't think you can even call it a cohesive planetary nation anymore."

There was an awkward silence as the two men stared each other down.

"Has America finally recognized Mars yet? Or are they still pining away, grinding coffee beans and making half-drafted petitions?" The man's smile was as sharp as ice. "I hope you enjoy the stay on the I.P.S. Luxury."

Besides the run-in with the "Russian," Alfred's transition into the I.P.S Luxury was as easy as it was thrilling. A guide showed him to a small kitchen that was to be his coffee shop, and the small room with a futon that was his room.

"It's great," Alfred breathed, dropping his various bags on the floor of the coffee shop. "Is there a way to make the window bigger?"

Staying in space constantly wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Besides the few viewing bays for the guests, the rest of the ship was left with tiny portholes… Not that there was much to see. The stars were blocked out from the light of the ship, and the planets could only be seen when you were practically on top of them. The artificial gravity had Alfred's back aching. The coffee beans the I.P.S. Luxury provided were terrible, to say the least.

Alfred, perhaps because of his upbringing and the stubbornness beaten into him, was _determined_ to make the arrangement work.

The next market day, Alfred bought as much paint as he could. He set about putting his imagination onto the dull, metal counter of his shop. Soon, entire galaxies had been mapped out over every inch of surface Alfred was allowed. He had stopped looking up star charts and had gone from memory. Supernovas blended into comets blended into dusty, Martian deserts. People began requesting their own flags in addition to Alfred's American one. The floor surrounding his counter was covered in uneven, messy rows of flags.

Alfred then began to grow his own coffee in the greenhouses; customers who had come for the color now came for the drinks. Soon, instead of just the grunt mechanics and janitors, actual passengers would descend for a cup of morning Joe.

Everything was going swimmingly—except for the Russian.

"Should have had a professional paint these," Ivan Braginski, newly appointed captain of the I.P.S., said to Alfred. "One glass of milk, please."

Alfred, who wasn't prone to disliking people, hated the captain. Every day, he would come strolling down from the upper levels to order—not a coffee—but a glass of milk. And, each day, he would have some new _smug_ comment.

"I never noticed, but I guess it is true how they say Martians are redder complexion."

"I didn't know galaxies could become deserts."

"This milk tastes a little off."

"For apparently living in so many different colonies, you do not seem to know much about the other cultures."

Alfred snapped. "Look, buddy, I'm just here to serve coffee. I'm not here to debate the logistics on Russia or art or—or—Look, I have other customers."

Ivan hummed thoughtfully, looking down into his glass of milk and swirling it with a straw. "Who would chose to serve coffee to people who are going to the hundreds of different colonies out there? Why do you not go start a coffee shop on—"

This was cutting a little too close to home. "Next!" Alfred called, looking over Ivan's shoulder at the sanitation worker behind him. Ivan shot him an amused look before strolling away.

"Do you miss your home," Ivan asked the next day, looking over the rim of his cup as he took a sip. The clever bastard had come when there was a lull in customers.

Alfred adjusted his glasses. "Well, yeah. Who doesn't miss their home?"

Ivan shrugged and took another sip. "We are returning to Mars after touring around Saturn's moons. Are you going to visit?"

Alfred threw a rag on the counter top, rubbing it down violently.

After a few moments of silence, Ivan let out another hum. "Did you know Saturn used to have rings? More than just a ghost of them. They used to be the planet's most noticeable things, instead of the storms."

Alfred hunched his shoulders before slowly turning around to face Ivan.

"Before the ammonia collectors set up their bases there, people used to visit and ride the winds in little storm ships," Ivan leaned against the counter, spinning his finger around in a slow circle. "Around and around. The Solar System was a lot less regulated back then."

Each word was like a spider web, drawing Alfred closer and closer. School had never been a priority on Mars. History books in rural Mars was like fishing in the oceans of Europa; if you found something, it was rare indeed.

Alfred considered Ivan for a moment. "Have you heard anything about the expedition that—"

"My sister is in that expedition. Captain Natalia. She says they've stalled for a week or two. She says…" Ivan took a sip from his milk and turned to Alfred, eyes closing as he smiled. "Sorry, am I boring you? I though you did not like me."

Alfred shot backwards, hitting the far counter and scowling. "You're an ass."

"Hee-haw." Ivan gave a small wave and trotted away.

And so, Alfred began to crave Ivan's visits. Mostly, it was just smug comments on the milk or the new flags. Occasionally, it was stories about planets and failed colonies. Even rarer still was news about the expedition outside of the known Solar System. Alfred craved it like nothing else.

"They've spotted another ship."

"You're shitting me," Alfred yelled, leaning against the counter. He felt very much like an eager puppy—and he did not care one bit. "Is it one of the failed expeditions? Or…? Come on, don't be all cryptic and quiet, tell me!"

Ivan shrugged, a small smile playing across his mouth. "Why have you been to so many different colonies?"

This again. "Look, my stupid life isn't nearly as interesting—oh, goddamnit. I dunno', man. I just…" Alfred took off his glasses and ran a hand over his face and into his hair. "Nothing ever just… Felt right. Nowhere I ever settled down."

Ivan cocked his head, taking a sip.

"After I left Mars, I went to the Lunar colonies. I set up a little shop, lived with Arth—" Alfred blinked, cutting himself off quickly. "It was exciting at first: you could see the big ol' cargo ships going to and from Earth. I used to see America every day, right under me.

"But then… It just wasn't enough. I dragged… We went to place for place, and then he left, and I didn't have anything but a few coffee beans and an application for the I.P.S. Luxury so…" Alfred waved his hands. "Here I am. I'm hoping somewhere we'll visit will, you know, _call_ to me. But... Well..." The barista ran a hand over his counter top, smiling fondly.

"It's a foreign ship."

And Ivan walked away.


End file.
